


Some Other Beginning's End

by RhetoricFemme



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Boy band AU, Fluff, JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: Eleven months now, half of which has seen Marco climbing into Jean’s bunk whenever their platinum motor coach, nicknamed The Titan, pulls away to leave another venue and city behind.Happy JeanMarco Gift Exchange, Blobpsycho100! I hope you enjoy your fic, and that 2021 is nothing short of warm, kind, and inspiring for you. <3
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020





	Some Other Beginning's End

It’s the same every night.

The lights go down, leaving five shimmering souls reduced to silhouettes desperate to run off into the night. Facades are shaken off just long enough to get a good night’s sleep. Just long enough to put off thinking about the radio station interview that somehow got squeezed into the space between wake time and their next early morning rehearsal.

Somewhere between it all, Marco crawls into a bunk that doesn’t belong to him; a comfort rivaled only by the decadent wool socks he’s just pulled on, just like he does after every show.

Jean could make a second career out of how utterly and completely he makes fun of Marco for his socks, though it does little to prevent Marco from wearing them. On the contrary, at this point Jean is certain his barbs merely encourage Marco to continue wearing them.

Now, Jean pulls Marco’s socked feet into his lap from where they now sit facing one another. Criticizing every stitch, every semblance of that East Coast Fair Isle lifestyle Marco’s temporarily left behind for the glitz and whims of the road.

That’s life on a tour bus, for you.

Eleven months now, half of which has seen Marco climbing into Jean’s bunk whenever their platinum motor coach, nicknamed The Titan, pulls away to leave another venue and city behind. 

Their driver will inevitably lean into the steering wheel, relinquishing one final blow of the horn that barely manages to sound louder than the evening’s leftover cacophony of teenage girls. Without fail, the girls will appear curbside, lining both sides of the road, a sea of zealous screams, camera flashes and homemade signs as Connie and Reiner pull back the The Titan’s curtains and wave goodbye.

In reality, it’s more grit than glitz. There’s more weary than there is whim, and while Jean still can’t figure out what he’s doing with his life, he acknowledges that for the first time in years he’s not worried about where the money is going to come from. It’s been a long time since he’s had to worry about being warm and fed.

Every night, Jean sticks to the same routine. Keeping the bunk’s curtains drawn until they’ve reached the highway, nestling into his pillows with a sigh, Jean will tug Marco’s wool-clad feet his way.

Marco’s got dozens of pairs of these wool socks, and Jean’s got words for every one of them, which he’ll gladly tell Marco all about while he kneads the evening’s tension out of dance-weary feet.

“Who wears these things?” Jean grouses. “Honestly, you look like you stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, Marco. Or! Or the woke hero of a Molly Ringwald movie.”

Marco just plasters on that too-handsome, scouts-honor smile. The one Erwin insists their fans go crazy for.

“For claiming to hate them,” Marco grins, “you sure put a lot of energy into thinking about my socks.”

“They’re awful.” Jean sighs airly, hooking his own feet behind Marco’s back, where he hopes Marco can’t see them. “You’d never catch me wearing any. Especially not your green ones with the little pine trees on them.”

“Uh huh.”

“That’s right.”

And then, Marco does it.

Marco hits Jean with that look, the one that suggests Marco could reduce Jean to his basest emotions, to his most primal self, laying Jean bare for all the world to see, only to keep every ounce of it for himself.

For better or worse, Marco has a knack for forcing Jean to confront himself so thoroughly, he can feel it deep within his bones.

With only another month left before the end of their tour—before they all start the process of transitioning back to the real world—Marco has grown especially fond of handing Jean dire little truths. Whether they’re premature parting gifts, or hints at wanting for something more, Jean doesn’t know.

Jean has to wonder if it’s part of Marco’s hidden appeal, that perhaps Marco’s share of the fan base has picked up on the affectionately domineering aspects that lay beneath his wholesome, boy-next-door facade.

But, Jean’s sure, none of them have been privy to that look in Marco’s eye—the one he uses to level Jean now, as they hide away, nestled safe inside the curtained confines of a private bunk while the rest of the world continues to speed by.

No one can touch them here.

It’s a safe space Jean has reluctantly learned to share, if only with Marco. As such, he answers honestly when Marco decides that tonight he’s going to put it all out there.

“You hate this.” Marco asks. “Don’t you?”

Once upon a time, Jean would have responded to such a loaded question candidly, without regret, and he would have done so immediately.

Now, Jean waits a moment before answering. He doesn’t wish to offend the ambitions or experiences of his group mates, has no intention of trampling on the hearts of the people whose enthusiasm have elected him the opportunity to be here.

“Hate… is a strong word.”

“But you never imagined you’d end up touring the country as one fifth of a platinum-selling pop group... Did you?”

Jean laughs nervously. “Did any of us?”

”Connie’s having a blast.” Marco points out while ignoring Jean’s question. “Colt’s gracious enough that he’ll use it as a stepping stone however long the fans want him to. And Reiner’s chill enough that he’ll just roll with it, then go onto the next interesting thing. _You’re_ tolerating it.”

It’s too honest. Jean relegates his stare out the window. They’re about to drive through another city, the hazy yellow glow of street lamps robbing him of the stars.

“It’s alright.” Marco says easily. “No one here’s upset with you about it. You might not like what we’re doing, but you care about _us_. So that’s enough.”

For the life of him, Jean doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand how anyone can maintain such a candid, confrontational demeanor and find themselves with such a glowing reputation on the other side. But here Marco is, regardless. It must be that _taking a break from his psych PhD_ thing the teen magazines love to go on about.

“And what’re _you_ doing here?” Jean wants to know. “Huh?”

Marco shrugs. “I’m going back home after this.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. For the first time since Jean invited Marco into his bubble so many months before, Marco feels as if he may have caused hurt, as opposed to shielding Jean from it.

Regardless of the way Jean slowly nods in understanding, Marco has no doubt that he’s just caused this person he cares so deeply for, to feel pain.

Jean is completely unhappy here, feels out of place and doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He’d told Marco as much once long ago. Had found trouble in conveying that he wasn’t used to the idea of friendship or family, and that signing onto a yearlong tour with four people he hadn’t planned on growing close to, had found Jean in way over his head.

In the end, Marco had called him out on it. "You don't trust anybody."

Jean's eyes had flicked up, his demeanor stony and fluctuating between vulnerability and glaring a little harder. "That's what happens when you've never had somebody to trust."

“I’m sorry.” Marco had said back then, not unlike the way he mutters the words now.

Things have changed since back then.

Time had seen to it that the lot of them would grow close. While Jean knew he’d find it bittersweet leaving these people at the end of their tour, he was having significantly more trouble thinking about leaving Marco behind.

And so he pours his confessions into Marco, who in receiving them in confidence, holds them as close as he’s been allowed to hold Jean on a few cherished nights.

“I was so… stupid.” Jean whispers loudly. “When Erwin found me, I _told_ him I didn’t want it all out there.”

Marco’s heart lilts.

While their manager, Erwin Smith, had honored Jean’s request, he’d also made it clear that he held zero sway with the press.

Jean had imagined he’d be ready for whatever they decided to write about him. He’d figured they would romanticize the way he’d been picked up by Erwin while busking with his violin throughout Trost’s subway system, completely ignoring the reality that Jean was using his talent and education in an attempt not to starve.

Jean hadn’t been ready for the found photographs published in teen magazines of that wiry, angry child who’d been made to rely on youth shelters and opportunities to couch surf.

"I'm not interested in being some vision of prepubescent fantasies and pity." Jean sniffs. “But what right do I have to complain, right? I won’t ever need to wait tables and share tips for sixty hours a week, again, right? No need to turn around and play Brahms for spare change after work so long as I play my cards right.”

"Maybe you're just looking at it all wrong." Marco suggests quietly.

“Yeah.” Jean sighs. “Probably.”

Jean leans into that notion now. Thinks of what he’ll do next, where he’ll go. And in the meantime, he savors the way Marco looks at him, and only him.

“You staying in here tonight?”

“If you like.”

“Yeah.” Jean whispers. “I would like.”

* * *

One year later, nothing is the way Jean imagined it would be. But then, this seems to be the story of his life.

A year has gone by since Allies & Warriors took their final bow, hanging up their sequined jackets and mic wires before going their separate ways.

It’d hurt more than Jean thought it would, not starting his day at a craft table with Connie. No more warmups with Colt and Reiner, or trying not to roll his eyes as a smattering of teens peeked through gates and windows for just one glance at Marco.

Gone are the lights and the costumes, replaced by overcast skies as he’s back to playing Brahms in those same old Doc Martens, Erwin had found him in so long ago.

There’s a difference, though.

On this day Jean doesn’t play for the subway tunnels, but beneath a Main Street awning where he’s been invited to play at will. Much to his delight, almost no one at all asks Jean if he might also sing.

Where Jean used to tune his violin over the sound of passing trains, these days he’s got time to ensure his pegs and strings are set before he arrives to serenade passersby for the day. He warms up his instrument from the warmth of the shelter he chooses to play in front of, busking not for money, but for donations of hats, coats and boots, any other other comforts or necessities the good people of Trost are willing to provide their city’s homeless youth.

Jean’s own combat boots are still invincible to cracked pavement and puddles just like they had been years before, not a hole or tear to be seen despite their age. Jean doesn’t care much about acquiring new laces or boot polish, though he imagines the green wool socks with little pine trees brighten the old boots quite a bit.

He ignores the way Marco snorts when he finds Jean wearing them. Threatens not to take any of Marco’s requests if he keeps his antics up. It seems Jean gives a good teasing better than he receives one.

It doesn’t prevent him from leaning into it when Marco envelops him in a hug, or indulging when the side of his head receives an adoring kiss.

“I miss you.” Marco rasps into Jean’s ear. “When’re you coming home?”

Jean makes no attempt to hide the smile Marco’s question gives him. “M’giving lessons after this. So not until later.”

Marco sighs dramatically, kisses Jean again. “I suppose I can live with that.”

“Yeah?” Jean smirks. He relishes the way Marco watches as he plays a couple of scales, loosening himself up with playful little staccatos and vibratos here and there. “You’ll manage?”

“I’ll manage.” Marco laughs, already starting to walk away. Five minutes with Jean in the middle of the day had been well worth walking downtown on his lunch break.

It’s a far cry from where they’d been a year ago, stepping down from the top of the world while asking themselves how they would each move forward.

As fate would have it, they were to figure it out together. Marco with his firmly established roots, and Jean finding the space to thrive and grow therein.

Jean watches now, as his fiance walks away. Marco looks back only once, and when Jean catches him, he changes the music, if only for a moment.

Marco can’t help but grin from half a block away, as he listens to Jean’s classical rendition of a song they used to sing together--once begrudgingly, now a fond memory--every single day.


End file.
